


In Love's Own Time

by merrills



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: -making chefs gesture by puttin index middle finger and thumb together-, Emotional Hurt, Extreme Pining, F/M, Pining, Zevran emoting so hard that he needs to be turned off and then be turned on again, i guess?, i'm talking poetry and wine and italian aesthetic, if you can't handle extreme kitsch this is not 4 u, it's about the yearning, reboot the assassin, teeth-rotting romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 16:04:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20438735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrills/pseuds/merrills
Summary: After finding out that an estranged and hardened King Alistair has given his heart to somebody else, Mahariel abandons her duties as . Warden and travels to Antiva City to seek solace in an old friend.Who, in a whirl of unmanteling an assassins' guild, hunting slavers, carnal passion, and excellent wine, ends up falling for her. Very much to his surprise and dread.





	In Love's Own Time

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, okay so... this is basically the chapter of a fic that I have been writing in my head but can't commit to writing in full rn cause I'm working on two other long projects. But this is so deliciously dramatic and full of yearning and pining that I can't help but post it. 
> 
> If there is any response, I might put more time to properly write things out, since I have basically all of the plot already worked out anyways.
> 
> For context: I based Antiva City off of a romanticised version of a big Italian town/city, because... well just because.  
The title of this fic, as well as the poem quoted later on are "In Love's Own Time" by Michelangelo. I swapped out "God" for "Maker", the rest stays the same  
And as for the plot leading up to this...
> 
> \- Zeyma Mahariel goes to Alistair (hardened), discovers that he has fallen in love with someone else  
-Zeyma goes to visit Zevran in Antiva City, for distraction and comfort / heart to heart  
while she is walking around the city at night, she gets blindsided and attacked by a couple of slavers to abduct her and take her to a place with several other elves  
-Zevran worries when Zeyma has not returned by morning and goes looking for her, eventually finding her; they slay the slavers, free the captives, and decide to persecute the slaver operation in Antiva City, and in turn harm the Crow’s influx of recruits  
-Zeyma ends up staying in Antiva City for over four months, during which they go after they own respective work, as well as work together on their task  
\- Zevran ends up falling for Zeyma without at first noticing, until a lovely hatmaker wants to be taken back to his place. Zevran asks Zeyma for permission, seeing as it is the sensible thing to do since she is his de facto roommate, and she agrees to leave for the night. Zevran however does not go through with it, which brings up all types of emotional conflict for him  
-there’ll be some sort of resolution  
-happy end?
> 
> so, hope you enjoy

After the lovely hat maker had left his apartment, Zevran thought of all the things he could do now. But he ended up doing none of them. He felt restless, and yet still was confined to the bed. Among the crumpled cotton sheets, in his beloved bedroom lit by candles, he sat with his legs drawn to his chest, arms around them, and thought. 

He thought and he thought, about that peculiar impulse he had just had. About what he wanted. About what it meant. He sat there and thought for near through the night. Sleep was far off. He couldn’t rest, for even if he barely moved a cramping muscle, his mind ran on and on. Rarely had he ever spend this much time simple examining his own inner workings. Things usually simply happened to him, or he made them happen, and that was the way his life worked. It was a simple system. But tonight something within him had moved to make a deep, resonant sound. Something that felt like an incisura, a pause or a break in his life. Except that nothing extraordinary had happened. And he didn’t rightly know what to make of it.

Zevran sat there until the first shades of pale pink and and orange drew their way across the sky in front of his window. It was then that he decided that further pondering would likely not yield any more conclusions than those he had already drawn. And so the assassin laid down, stretching his sore limbs until they stopped tingling. He drew one of the sheets up to his chest, but even so sleep eluded him. 

After a few fruitless tosses and turns, which only added to his aggravation, Zevran sat up and turned to the book laying on the nightstand next to him. Perhaps reading on one of his favorite subjects would calm his racing soul. It was a book of prominent Antivan poetry, one that Zeyma had picked off a bandit. 

A small group of them had been foolish enough to attack the Grey Warden one late evening in one of the small and winding streets of the city when she was making her way home to Zevran. There were soon taught that they had made a mistake; the Warden had not killed them, but after swiftly defeating them and leaving them on the ground, injured, she had demanded that they relinquish anything they were carrying on them. Robbery was not necessarily worth their life, but it sure was worth them losing whatever they had stolen as compensation. That included the coin they had already robbed other people of, and a few trinkets. Among them the book. The Warden had been in a splendid mood upon arriving in the apartment. She had swung her tried and true leather satchel into a corner, greeted Zevran enthusiastically and let herself fall to his chest, with her arms around his neck and the book still in one hand. She had told him of the encounter, and presented the printed work of the most prominent Antivan poets up to date, proud, because she remembered that Zevran was fond of poetry and she delighted in the coincidence. Zevran smiled to himself upon recalling that sweet memory.

He rubbed his index about the golden imprint of the faded dark green cover. This book had been well-loved by someone, either the bandit or the person they had lifted it off of. The corners of the cover were bent and the leather worn, revealing the cardboard underneath. The edges of the book itself had a faint orange hue to them, which transformed into a pale yellow the further the eye travelled towards the middle.

He snapped it shut. No. No, good poetry had to be enjoyed with a glass of excellent wine. 

Zevran swung his legs over the edge and walked barefoot and nude into the kitchen of his apartment. His fingers trailed over the light brown surface of the wooden table when he walked past it. Before long he had gotten a bottle out of his modest cabinet, uncorked it and grabbed a proper wine glass in a few fluid movements. 

He started feeling a bit more like himself again. Wine and poetry and candles. That was the Antivan way. Or would be, if there was a murder, too. But wine, poetry and candles would suffice for tonight.

Back in the bedroom, he placed the glass and bottle on the nightstand, filled the former with a generous helping, and made himself comfortable on his bed. He propped his back against an upturned pillow and crossed his legs, the book in front of him. Then he opened it someplace in the middle and reached for his glass to take the first sip of the heavy dry wine.

He flipped through page after page, slowly. Leisurely enjoying himself, until something caught his eye. With a piece of led, wherever they might have gotten in, somebody had underlined or even circled words and sometimes whole phrases. Made notes next to it.

Zevran had no way of knowing if it was his Warden’s hand, for all he knew it could have also been, again, one of the bandits or the books previous owner. But a tug inside of him made him believe it was Zeyma who had defiled the book. 

Because, see, this book on Antivan poetry, it was written in the Antivan native tongue. And for all Zevran knew, the Warden did not speak it, much less read it. But it was a temptingly foolish, achingly sweet thought that she might use the stolen book to discreetly learn. 

He sat the glass he had been holding down on the bedside table, and kept turning page after page, starting to feel feverish. Soon he was fully absorbed, did not even notice how his back became rounder and rounder as he brought himself closer to the book on his lap.

He examined the words that were underlined, read certain poems for context, and then. Then he closed the book ands started from the beginning, with the very first one. And there it was, plain as honey’s sweetness. Notes over notes, on terms and phrases, concepts, all of it explained in the Common tongue, with references. There was only a miniscule doubt in Zevran’s mind, now, that this was his Warden learning the language of his heart. But why?

If possible even more entranced now than he had been before, but less feverish, Zevran continued going through the poems. Reading her notes, reading the pieces themselves. Page after page, for a long time. Until he staggered over one particular one.

Zeyma had underlined half a poem this time. And there were almost no notes she had taken concerning translations or explanations. The poem read:

_ Had I but earlier known that from the eyes _

_ Of that bright soul that fires me like the sun, _

_ I might have drawn new strength my race to run, _

_ Burning as burns the phoenix ere it dies; _

_ Even as the stag or lynx or leopard flies _

_ To seek his pleasure and his pain to shun, _

_ Each word, each smile of hers would I have won, _

_ Flying where now sad age all flight denies. _

_ Yet why complain? For even now I find _

_ In that glad angel's face, so full of rest, _

_ Health and content, heart's ease and peace of mind _

_ Perchance I might have been less simply blest, _

_ Finding er sooner: if 'tis age alone _

_ That lets me soar with her to seek the Maker's throne. _

And the singular remark she had put down next to it was, in small, angled letters: Zev.

The light outside pulled itself up and further up the sky, painting it in the softest, cloudless blue. Candles still flickered in his bedroom, forgotten but unrelenting.

Zevran was sitting as he had been. Nude, crouched over the book, each side placed on either of his thighs. Strands of hair that had gotten loose from the usual braids he weaved into his hair in the mornings, were hanging into his lowered face. Eyes unmoving from the tiny word on the yellowed page. Lips parted. Hot breath streaming out from between them, tickling.

Incisura.

He felt as if he had run a long stretch to prepare for a jump, only to halt right before he was supposed to take the leap. He could not comprehend…

If it said…

If it was a sign of commitment to…

The poem recorded, in plain words, the author’s thoughts on a recent love: regret they had not found each other sooner, that he had missed his lover’s previous smiles. But that it also, ultimately, did not matter. So long as they joined the Maker’s side, together.

It was easy. It felt so clear. The connection between the poem and her writing his name right next to it. Yet Zevran could not wrap his mind around it. He could not -

His eyes started burning, and he finally blinked and leaned into the pillow at his back. As if to make up for all the racing that his mind had done in the hours before, it was now blank. Any thought extinguished in a bright light. All the man could do was stare out the window on the opposite wall. At how the blue grew deeper and deeper, at how the morning sun illuminated the vibrant reds and oranges of the city’s roofs.

Zevran wished his Warden were here now. He did not even know what he would be doing if she were. Kiss her all over, or simply lay in her arms as he had so often in the past months? Tell her about the confusion he felt? Or just be close to her, watch her go about her morning the way she always did, untouched by his conflicted spirit, as Zevran burned up from being close to her? He wished… wished… wished…

There was a quiet knock on the door before it opened. Zevran closed the book and placed it back where it had lain. From where he was sitting he could see Zeyma cautiously stick her head from the hallway into the main room. Surprise entering her expression when she saw him in bed alone.

“Your company still here?” she asked, her voice all hushed.

It took Zevran one powerful heartbeat to master his voice and slink back into habit. In a fluid movement he untangled his legs and got up from the bed. “Unfortunately not. It turns out hatmaking is a time-consuming endeavour that requires an early start into the day.”

Zeyma grinned and now properly entered the apartment. She was carrying a basket that she placed on the table. “Shame. Her loss is my gain, then. I found this amazing cheese at the market,” she explained while unpacking its contents. “I came to discreetly leave it here with my other purchases, but since your lover has left perhaps you care for some breakfast?”

Leisurely, Zevran joined her by the table and inspected the things she had bought. Fragrant herbs, a club-shaped vegetable shining in a blackened purple, more ripe tomatoes that they could possibly eat within a few days, warm bread with a thick, salted crust. 

He sighed as he picked up one of the plump red fruits and rubbed over it to make it shine. It was her favorite thing of Antiva’s, besides himself. Ever since he had taught her how to cook with it, she continued to buy them in ridiculous quantities and prepare them into enough food to feed a whole orphanage.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” she asked, clearly undeterred by his half amused, half exasperated sigh. She moved between kitchen and living room fluidly, without thinking or halting for anything. Plates, mugs, cutlery, oil, it all got appeared on the table, while the basket, vegetable and herbs quickly found their places in the kitchen. 

The familiarity of the situation filled Zevran with aching. He wondered how many mornings of theirs had been like this. Four months. He had never thought of it like that before, always just taken the Warden’s time here as a pleasant diversion. But now, with what he’d learned, it seemed too long. Too long to just seem like something fleeting, though all else in life was, and it filled him with yearning for something he could not articulate. She was here, after all. Buzzing about his apartment, talking of the conversations she had had at the market. Content to just spend time with him. 

What more could he possibly want, silly man? What more could he ask for? Why did feel like it was suddenly not enough? Like he was in danger of losing something dear to him?

“And so I asked him about his sheep, and he even had a ram with him. My clan never made cheese from their milk, though I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that other clans have tamed wild rams for such purposes,” Zeyma kept talking. By now the table was plated, and she had taken it on herself to carefully unfold the wax sheet wrapped around the bright white cheese. She sighed happily at the perfectly circular block. “Look at it! What a beauty.”

_ Not as beautiful as you _ , Zevran would ordinarily have said, and made her smile. But the words got stuck in his throat.

As if it were fragile, the Warden sliced a knife through the thick and heavy cheese, but only to the middle. She cut out a small, almost perfect diagonal piece, and then a second one, which she then offered her friend. “Here, try.”

He slipped next to her -  _ too close, too close, too close,  _ his mind screamed at him - and took the offered token in his mouth. 

_ Had I but earlier known that from the eyes _

_ Of that bright soul that fires me like the sun- _

He held her dear, this was not news to him. But only now did he realize how far she had stretched her fingertips into his chest and shaken his heart. 

_ Each word, each smile of her would I have won, _

_ Flying where now sad age all flight denies- _

Zevran’s tongue pressed the rich, salty texture against the roof of his gum, heart pounding in his chest as if it were to stop the next instant. He could not swallow. He wanted to, but his throat was closed. Zeyma looked at him, and he returned her casual gaze, so desperate for her to see, to  _ feel  _ that there was something wrong. 

_ My love, _ he thought.  _ My warden. _

“It’s good, no?” she asked when she had finished her piece. “I think this time I picked well.”

Between the food in his mouth and his insides clenching in panic, Zevran could not speak, not reply.

_ My love, my warden. My love, my warden. My love, my warden. _

“You did,” he finally pressed out, and forced the cheese down his throat. “At this rate you shall become a native Antivan in no time.”

Her laughter soothed him, for just a moment. But it also agonized his strained nerves. He felt himself burning up, heated beyond what was bearable, threatening to burst with something that saw no out.

“Coffee?” Zeyma offered, and turned to go make it.

How could she not see? How could she be blind to his struggle?

Zevran grabbed her wrist and pulled her so that her backside hit the table and he could step in front of her. She gasped in surprise, stuck between his naked body and a wooden edge pressed against her backside. 

_ Burning as burns the phoenix ere it dies; _

_ Even as the stag or lynx or leopard flies _

_ To seek his pleasure and his pain to shun- _

“And here I thought you would be spent after your last tryst,” she teased, but the smirk fell of her face when she properly looked into Zevran’s burning eyes. She raised her hand to cup his tattooed cheek, eyes darting over his face in concern. “Are you alright?”

_ My love, my warden, _ the assassin thought, his heartbeat an instant from choking him. Anything but to be alone with this feeling. _ I have to tell her.  _

His lips parted. “I…”

Tell her… what? How exactly should he put into words for her what he had not been able to articulate for himself?

“I… let me prepare the coffee, dear,” he stuttered. “You have taken care of everything else on this table, let me take care of this.” 

She blinked, visibly confused at the intensity of his actions compared to the casualness of his offer. “If you want, go ahead. You make it better than I do.”

Zevran let go of her wrist and stepped away into the kitchenette of his living quarters, grateful to be able to turn his back to her. He felt more overwhelmed and confused than he ever had before. There was no easy way to talk or trick himself out of this. He had to accept it for what it was, and suffer, or kill that part of himself that was causing his current turmoil. He had done it before, he could do it. And Zevran was sure he would, that it was the only way. 

Until he turned, two cups of hot black liquid in his hands, and his eyes fell on the wicked woman sitting at his table. In the exact same manner she had nearly every morning since she had arrived at his doorstep. And Zevran realized, with dread, that suffocating his feelings towards her would strip everything they had been through in the past few months of its worth. All those talks on his balcony over breakfast, lunch, or dinner, the walks in the City, the travelling and hunting for slavers, the mingling of their heated breaths in the dark of night. He would have to acknowledge that it all was worthless, this was the premise on which he would have to steel himself. 

He looked at his warden, his love, and he couldn’t. Feeling the way he did about her hurt and confused him to his core. But the thought of denying all the joy and tenderness she had carried into his life hurt more. 

He could not do it. He would not do it. 

If only he knew what he would do instead. Because in this moment, after what might have been one of the biggest revelations of his life, he had not a single inkling. 

But he has willing to find out. 

What was life if not for a little adventure?


End file.
